


Harry Potter and the Centaur's Prophecy

by tatej_od



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Marauders' Era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 15:30:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13367649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatej_od/pseuds/tatej_od
Summary: A Marauder's Era AU following the marauders and their own journey through Hogwarts leading up to the First War. Use of canon characters and ideas from the Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling with an original "twist" on how I think the story before the story went.





	1. We Are Pleased to Inform You...

**Author's Note:**

> May include harsh language or sexual references, reader discretion advised.  
> All characters owned by J.K. Rowling as part of the Harry Potter book series.  
> Comments and critiques welcomed!

James gazed up at the envelope in his father’s clutch.

“It came?” he asked, dumbfounded.

“Of course, m’boy! Why wouldn’t it have?” Fleamont Potter smiled down at his eleven-year-old son. He handed James the yellow parcel sealed with a crimson crest and ruffled the boy’s dark, untamable hair. James broke from his trance and ran out from under his father’s reach.

“IT CAME!” James shouted again, eagerly tearing into the paper as he ran. He sprinted into the kitchen where his mother, Euphemia, stood at the sink, directing dried dishes to their appropriate places with a wave of her wand. Fleamont ambled in after him, chuckling as his son began to read. “ _Dear Mister James Charlus Potter_ , THAT’S ME!” his father laughed again as the boy pushed his oversized, round-framed glasses farther up the bridge of his small nose and continued, “ _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_ …” He trailed off looking up at his parents, his dark eyes wide in excitement. Drying her hands on her worn apron, his mother smiled over at her husband who was in turn beaming down at his son—no doubt remembering his eleventh birthday and the day he received his letter of acceptance to Hogwarts.

“Well there was never a doubt in my mind!” sang Euphemia, “shall I floo Charlus and tell him the good news?” Without waiting for her husband’s response, she crossed the kitchen and took down a glass bowl filled with twinkling emerald dust from the fireplace mantle. Sprinkling it into the low flame, she murmured to herself (or perhaps to the fire) “Charlus Potter, Tybalt Place” and bent her face down into the now green glowing fire. Floo powder—next to owl post—was the quickest and most efficient way of communication between wizarding families all over the world. The Potters would see their relatives later that night at James’ family birthday dinner, but the news of James’ acceptance into the most prestigious wizarding school in the entire world could simply not wait.

“So extremely proud! Will Dorea be coming as well? Alright, bring a plate to pass if you must… we will see you around seven.” She pulled out of the flame to floo Fleamont’s parents next. Her husband and son sat down at the long kitchen table to discuss Fleamont’s own adventures at Hogwarts over a cup of morning tea.

The Potter family was wealthy, there was no denying it--thanks to both Fleamont’s father and uncle and their famous inventions and countless accomplishments in the wizarding world. However, unlike _some_ ancient wizarding lines, the Potters were more than happy not to flaunt their wealth or boast about their blood-status. They were not on the list of _The Sacred Twenty-Eight_ —a list of the oldest pureblood families in wizarding history—what with having such a common muggle surname and extensive history of marrying non-magical people. They lived in a nice house—not too small, yet not excessively large—atop a hill on the outskirts of Quail Covey, a little wizarding town famous for its fabrication of the golden snitch and last known reserve of magical Blue Quail. It was roomy enough for the small family, and the fortune collecting at Gringotts Wizarding Bank was more than plenty to provide James (their only child) with a nice life after the Potters had passed.

James glanced down again in awe at the letter in his grasp. He had dreamt about this day every night for the past year, and finally it had come. There really hadn’t been much to worry about--James had been doing magic (much to the dismay and torment of his poor mother) for years. He just hadn’t been sure that he was the right _kind_ of magic. His mother had told him all about who they let in to Hogwarts and who they didn’t. For instance, werewolves, vampires and squibs were amongst those never allowed admittance—it had been that way for the better part of a thousand years. Squibs were more or less muggles, born into wizarding families yet they themselves were devoid of magic. James had been taught that Squibs were really no different than he was, except that they couldn’t magically make their stuffed animals float to the ceiling or blow up their cereal when they were mad. They normally went on to live among non-magic folk in the muggle world and led fairly normal lives—except, of course, for their awareness of the existence of magic.

Regardless, James was filled to the brim with excitement. He had so much to look forward to over the next few months—his family party later that night (Uncle Charlus was a hoot when you got some fire whiskey in him); a trip to Diagon Alley to shop for all of his school supplies (maybe Dad would even buy him a new broomstick!); and September first, the day that he and his parents would travel to King's Cross Station, platform nine and three quarters, where he would board the Hogwarts Express. He only hoped that, being trapped in this large house with no one his age to play with, he wouldn’t perish of boredom before then.

......

Grimmauld Place had been exceptionally (yet characteristically) boring that cool, November day. A young boy with jet-black, shoulder-length hair lay sprawled across the living room floor of his London manor, scribbling on a piece of parchment with a spare quill he had stolen from his father’s study. Sirius Black, a rather handsome boy (or young man, as he preferred), had spent the day entertaining himself by making a list to replenish his stock of magical items used to prank his unsuspecting parents (since there was nothing else to do around here). It was a normal day in the Ancient House of Black except of course for one thing--it was Sirius’ eleventh birthday.

“REG!” he shouted from his spot on the floor, still scribbling out a diagram of a rather complicated stunt involving dung bombs and a deck of exploding snap cards. When he didn’t get a response, he hoisted himself up and strode over to the grand staircase. “REEE-EEEG!” he tried again. He would have never dared yell like this had his parents been home, but since they were gone at a supper for some big bloke at the ministry (perhaps even the Minister himself, Sirius could care less), he had free reign over the mansion. Sort of.

Sirius Black had stopped expecting any great ordeal for his birthday long ago, and was therefore not surprised when he woke up that morning to a message from his parents saying they’d be home late and to enjoy the cake in the fridge once supper had finished. He of course had ignored them and snuck the cake for breakfast instead. All day he lounged about, waiting for the daily owl post and making out a list of presents he would demand his parents to buy for him on their next trip to Diagon Alley, along with the things he would surely need for school (most of the items not academic-related in the least). His school letter hadn’t arrived yet, but he was overly confident that it would; he met all qualifications, if not more, that this school was looking for—and if he didn’t get in he had no idea what he would do with himself.

“Master Regulus is up in the attic, sir.” Came a croak from behind Sirius, making him jump. He never had taken a liking to the family house elf, Kreacher, quite like Regulus had. _Probably because the thing looked like a shriveled old bat wrapped in a potato sack_ , thought Sirius.

“Er…Ok.” He replied, brushing the house elf off and bolting up the stairs two at a time, bringing his parchment with his supply list with him. He arrived at the top landing and pulled down the trap door revealing the ladder leading up to the attic—Regulus’ favorite hiding spot. “You do know that mum and dad are gone, right?” Sirius asked his younger, slightly smaller, yet very similar looking brother, who had been huddled up on his cushions in the corner of the dark, musty attic, reading his favorite comic books, Wylie the Werewolf.

“I know.” Regulus said without a glance up at his big brother. “Look what I’ve been planning!” Sirius said excitedly, ignoring his brother’s indifference and shoving the piece of paper under his nose.

“Mum’ll kill you if she finds this, you know…” Regulus warned, but showed a slight spark of interest nonetheless. Regulus Arcturus Black was a quiet young boy, always wanting to please the boys’ parents--and often hiding up in his attic on days he felt he was unable to. He was the epitome of a “mama’s boy” but Sirius didn’t hold it against him, especially since Reg was his only ally in their morbid home and very rarely did he tell on Sirius for his countless (albeit harmless) antics. He was always one to obey his parents, whereas Sirius had taken to rebelling against them in small ways—such as taping pictures of muggle motorcycles to his walls or refusing to cut his hair. Walburga Black had given up on her eldest son ever being the picture of the family name, not that she was exactly ashamed of the handsome and charming young boy. But Sirius, it seemed, did not hold the same beliefs that the rest of his family did.

“What do you think it’s like? Hogwarts, I mean.” Regulus asked quietly, abandoning his comic book and looking up at his brother who had just finished listing off the supplies he would need when it was time for him to leave for school.

“Positively and absolutely brilliant!” Began Sirius, throwing his hands and parchment into the air dramatically. “Can’t wait until I get the letter telling me I’m in though… starting to think maybe I’m a squib!” Sirius roared with laughter at the absurd thought. He had been showing signs of magic since before he could walk, sending his bottle soaring across the room whenever mother sent the house elf to feed him, or turning his father’s toupee various colors for his own amusement. Regulus giggled meekly in agreement, though the thought of being a squib in the Ancient House of Black sent a shudder down his spine.

The Black family was one of _The Sacred Twenty-Eight_ and probably the most influential and wealthiest in the wizarding world--they were the closest thing to royalty in all of the magical European continent. Sirius and Regulus’ parents were constantly on luncheons, dinners, and meetings with various important political persons. The boys grew up believing anyone less than that of pureblood status are not worth knowing, let alone associating with. Walburga Black had a tapestry of the Black family tree hanging in a sitting room on the ground floor filled with names of their entire family--except, of course, for those who had been “weeded out” for threatening the _pureness_ of their surname. Sirius had always been curious of the tapestry and often wondered what each scorch mark had done to deserve expulsion from their place in the branches.

The brothers eventually made their way back downstairs to the basement kitchen where they were greeted by the waft of potato soup and baguettes made by their gruesome house elf, Kreacher. They were not strangers to the absence of parental guidance. In fact, Kreacher had been their primary caregiver since they were old enough to be separated from their mother; Kreacher would feed them, clothe them, and make sure they were washed up well. Walburga was just around to make sure the boys acted like respectable young Black wizards should, and that their views were of pureblood superiority.

Walburga and Orion Black did not arrive home that night until well after the boys had been sent to their chambers. Sirius had been lying awake in bed, pondering life at Hogwarts, when he heard them arrive two flights below, arguing again about something pointless, Sirius was sure. He sighed. He could not wait to get out of this house; If ever there was someone who didn’t belong in the House of Black, it was him.

He rolled over in bed and attempted to block out the shouting, hoping for the sake of his younger brother that he had already fallen asleep and remained dreaming through the noise. He only covered up and attempted to feign unconsciousness when he heard footsteps pounding toward his door. The door burst open with a loud bang and he ceased the act, jerking upright, frightened that he was in trouble for some reason. Walburga Black stood there, chest heaving in the frustration of her latest marital argument as she flicked the lamps on with a rude wave of her wand.

“Here.” She snapped, tossing him a yellow envelope sealed with a crimson crest before stomping back out of his room.

Feeling a wave of relief wash over him, Sirius stared down at the letter in his hand.

_Sirius Orion Black_

_Third Landing, Last Bedroom on the left_

_Number Twelve Grimmauld Place_

_London, England_

He ripped open the seal eagerly.

_Dear Mister Sirius Orion Black,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…_

He drifted off to sleep that night, dreaming of castles and classes and for some odd reason, Wylie the Werewolf.

......

Remus woke with a start. What time was it? He glanced down at his chained wrists and thought to himself it must be just past dawn, for his parents had not yet come to fetch him but he was in fact human again. He lifted himself up off the cold stone floor and winced as a sharp pain shot through his left leg. Glancing down, he noted the deep gash on his thigh that couldn’t have been more than a few hours old—he was sure it hadn’t been there yesterday—yet it looked like it had been there for days, already beginning to scar over. He sighed. Just another mark to the endless mosaic of scars that was his body. He stretched, his pale, naked skin glowing in what little light the dungeon offered, and waited patiently for his monthly rescue.

No, Remus was not part of an abusive, neglectful home. Nor had he been kidnapped. This was a normal monthly occurrence that had been going on since he had been attacked by a werewolf two days prior to his fifth birthday. He was now almost eleven and a half years old and had grown accustomed to the transformation and pain that came with each full-moon, even if his parents had not. Once a month, he was locked in the cellar of an old slave home near the Lupin family household, chained to the walls and floors and ceiling, and left overnight until he was no longer a threat to his family or neighbors— only, sadly, to himself.

Remus’ thoughts were interrupted by the sudden gleam of light coming from the opened trap door above him. He saw his father’s face peer down before turning to reassure his wife that their son was in fact still there--and still alive. He watched the prematurely aging man descend the steep stone steps and stride over to him, cautiously, as if looking for traces of the wolf still left from the night before.

“I’m fine, dad.” Remus reassured him, “Just a little sore—and cold.” He blushed looking down at his still naked body. His mother, who previously had been the one to come down and fetch her son, was no longer allowed down until Remus was fully clothed ever since he had become aware and self-conscious of his maturing body. He felt the weight of the chains release him and his father draped a pair of warm robes across his shoulders, helping him over to the staircase. They climbed carefully out into the cool March morning, to where his mother waited, perhaps more cheerfully than normal, holding a mug of the usual hot chocolate (with precisely seven miniature marshmallows) and a yellowed envelope.

Remus stopped abruptly, staring at the crimson-sealed parcel in his mother’s hands. She beamed back at him.

“I—it came?” Remus was stunned. He had been certain when he hadn’t received the letter two days prior on his eleventh birthday that there was no way he would ever be allowed in a boarding school with other children, due to the monthly danger he posed. Of course, this letter could also just be a polite declination of his application to the prestigious Hogwarts, school of witchcraft and wizardry.

“Go on then, open it up.” Hope Lupin urged, handing her son the much-awaited letter. Hope hadn’t known the joy of receiving her first Hogwarts letter. She was a muggle who, fifteen years ago, would have never imagined there was a whole other secret world filled with wizards, witches and wands—or werewolves for that matter.

Remus carefully pried open the seal on the letter, wanting to savor the Hogwarts crest embedded in the crimson wax. He slowly slid the parchment out of the folds and read in silence.

_Dear Mister Remus John Lupin,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…_

Remus blinked.

“What is it, pumpkin?” Hope asked anxiously, attempting to read the expression on her sons face and preparing for the worst.

“I got in.” Remus stared blankly, too shocked to process his acceptance.

Hope and Lyall exchanged wary looks, no doubt questioning whether the latest full moon had finally compromised their son’s sanity. They breathed a sigh of relief when a huge grin spread across Remus’ face, stretching the scars that ran from cheek to cheek and over the bridge of his nose.

“I got in!” he exclaimed, ditching his normally reserved demeanor and tearing hungrily back into the words written on the page in his hands.

_Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

Behind the standard acceptance letter was another, scrawled in long, slanted handwriting.

_Dear Mister Remus Lupin and family,_

_It is my pleasure to inform you that your case with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures in association with the Department of Magical Education has been approved. Never before has a known victim of Lycanthropy been admitted to Hogwarts, but it is with great honor, as Headmaster, that I apprise the longstanding tradition has come to an end. I wish to meet with you and your parents at some point closer to your start of term to discuss certain arrangements regarding your condition; it is of utmost importance to me that we make your time at school as pleasurable and safe as possible. I look forward to meeting you and hope that you enjoy your future education at Hogwarts._

_With anticipation,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

_Headmaster of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry_

Lyall, who had been reading over his son’s shoulder, curiously took the letter from his hands.

“Albus is headmaster now? No wonder you got in, son!” Lyall couldn’t contain the pride he felt for the small boy. “He’s head of the Wizengamot, and advocate for all half-humans. Not that you’re any less human than the rest of us, just seems the Ministry views you that way. Come on now, let’s get you home so you can rest up.” He led his son by the shoulders down the narrow, worn path leading to the backyard of the Lupin cottage.

“We’ll make a day of it! Take you to get all of your things as well,” Hope smiled, content with the fact that for the first time, her little boy was going to be able to lead a somewhat normal life.

......

“You filthy little rat!”

A short, pudgy boy lifted his head off of his knees from where he sat harmlessly on the curb of the street he had been previously and aimlessly wandering. He registered that the greeting had, in fact, been directed at him and scrambled up, darting frantically into a nearby alleyway.

“Get him!”

The boy ran faster, wheezing severely as he attempted to flee the group of boys still shouting rudely and gaining ground on their sandy-haired target. He took a sharp right into a little niche and hid behind an overflowing dumpster, kneeling in a puddle of God-knows-what and attempting to muffle his ragged gasps. He heard the boys slow in search of their escaped prey.

“We saw you, you know!” One of the boys, the leader of the pack, taunted. “We saw you moving those sticks without touching them! We saw you and we’re turning you in to mutant control!” The other boys erupted into jeers and hoots of laughter as if there was nothing that pleased them more than to terrorize a boy that had been doing nothing but minding his own. Peter tried not to cry in frustration as he continued to crouch behind the mound of trash, waiting for the boys to grow bored and leave. Soon enough, that’s exactly what they did, the four of them ambling out of the alleyway, diverting their unwanted attention to a stray cat.

Peter Pettigrew waited there for the better half of an hour before deciding the coast was clear. This daily episode was beginning to wear on the poor, mousey boy. Ever since school had let out for holiday, Peter—who had not had many (if any) friends to spend his summer days with—had taken to wandering around the town square near his Bristol apartment and had become the entertainment of a group of nasty boys from school. He had tried to stay home, but he guessed he would rather outrun a group of bimbo bullies than hang around inside with his drunken mother and whichever guy she had happened to bring home that particular week.

He kicked the base of a nearby lamppost in frustration and immediately regretted it as a sharp pain shot through his big toe and rendered him gimp, limping the rest of the way home. _Some birthday_ , he thought bitterly wishing for once that his mother had remembered and there would be a cake and presents waiting for him at home. And where was his Hogwarts letter? Peter didn’t know much, but one thing he knew for certain was that he was a wizard and wizards of Britain always went to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. When Peter was six years old, he remembered his mother telling him a story about her days at Hogwarts; he liked to reminisce on those days rather than the days after his father had left. His father was never really much of a father, but he was Peter’s biggest role model regardless, and the day he walked out had stuck in the then six-year-old’s mind permanently. Ever since, Peter had had to care for his alcoholic mother, as well as himself, and had taken to practicing magic every chance he could so as to get out of this hell he had the misfortune of calling home.

That is how he was caught by the boys, practicing arranging twigs into little log cabins for the cockroaches on the street without the use of his hands. He grumbled some more as he bounded up the steps to the plain flat, opening the door, and yelling “I’M HOME” to his mother who was more than likely still passed out in bed. He ambled over to the small kitchen table, filing through the overflowing pile of bills and envelopes, hoping that his letter had somehow magically appeared there since the last time he had checked. His heart skipped a beat as he came across a rather large and promising manila envelope, but he threw it aside after reading the heading: _What a Wizard Wants: 8 wild wand tricks to try in bed!_. He let out a steadying breath as he sank down into one of the mismatched kitchen chairs and buried his face in his hands. What if he never got out of here? What if they knew that his mother gave up her magic, so he wasn’t allowed into Hogwarts anymore?

Peter wasn’t exactly sure if his mother had _actually_ given up her magic or not, but he hadn’t seen her perform any since the day his father had left. Peter’s father had despised the fact that the woman he had married was a magical witch--Peter’s mother had avoided revealing her true self until after the two had wed and Peter was born, and evidently, she had been right to. After Peter’s father knew of this secret he was constantly leaving home for days and going out to get drunk, leaving his wife to care for Peter. They would get in fights frequently about Peter’s mother using magic around his father, and one day they finally snapped, Peter’s father walking out on them for good never to be heard from again. Ever since that day, Peter’s mother had been in a dazed and morbid state--turning to alcohol or men to numb her pain. _Or maybe,_ thought Peter, _alcohol infringed upon magic some way…or maybe having a broken heart and a broken home meant you had broken magic as well_. As Peter sat there, his mind spinning around the infinite intricate possibilities as to why he had not yet been accepted to the one place he had hoped he’d finally belong, there was a soft tap at the kitchen window.

The silhouette of a tawny barn owl could be made out in the glow of the setting sun outside the small kitchen window. Squinting his eyes, Peter could just barely see the owl, blinking in at the sad looking boy, holding a letter in its beak that made Peter jump up suddenly in sheer excitement. He pushed open the window, allowing the bird to swoop in briefly, drop the letter and then exit with a hoot. The boy ripped open the letter savagely and read the words _Dear Mister Peter Enid Pettigrew, We are pleased to inf_ ….. before jumping up in utter elation and looking around the room, eager to share the news with someone—anyone. But no one stood before him; no one cared that the dull boy had been accepted into the most respected and prestigious school a young wizard could ever attend. His shoulders drooped as he glanced back down at the letter. _The first thing I’m going to do when I get to Hogwarts_ , thought the boy, _is make some friends_.


	2. What We've Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into the lives of the Marauder's parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harsh language and sexual scenes/references used, reader discretion advised.  
> All characters owned by J.K. Rowling as part of the Harry Potter book series.  
> Comments and critiques welcomed!

Fleamont glanced up from the evening news at his loving wife—bustling around the kitchen, cleaning up after their son’s eleventh birthday party that had taken place earlier that night—and couldn’t help but smile. Euphemia, or Mia as he called her, had always been a picture of pure beauty. Her sleek dark hair, pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck, was slowly gaining streaks of grey as time passed; her once small, toned frame was now showing the wear and burden known only by motherhood; and the skin around her eyes was beginning to gain that slight, aging crinkle—a mark of the constant smiles the woman had shared with her family, if only to hide the bittersweet sadness she truly felt. But by God, was that woman breathtaking. Fleamont adjusted his glasses when his wife caught his stare and smiled suspiciously at him. He stood up and strode over to where she faced the sink, washing dishes from dinner that night, and embraced her from behind.

“I love you,” he whispered in her ear and she turned to face him, looking up in adoration at her husband of close to fifty years.

James groaned.

“Can you at least wait until I’m out of the room to start all that lovey-dovey nonsense?” He wrinkled his nose in mock disgust and carried the mound of presents he had received that night out of the room. His father laughed after the boy, knowing he was off to plot how he was going to sneak his brand new mini quidditch set (complete with flying snitch) into school with him.

“What was that for?” Euphemia asked after her son’s departure, draping her arms around her husband’s neck and reaching up to kiss him softly.

“Just… I don’t know…” Always such a way with words, Fleamont struggled to form coherent thoughts that expressed what he so desperately wanted to say to her. “Just… Look what we’ve made, Mia.” He glanced around at their warm and inviting kitchen, his gaze traveling from their young son’s acceptance letter lying on the mahogany table to the potted chalice flower planted meaningfully in the windowsill. His wife smiled, eyes damp.

“I love you more,” she whispered.

...

“Chalice Dee Potter…” the man tested the name on his tongue as if it were a foreign, yet beautiful language he wanted to know, “I love it.” Fleamont beamed at his young and largely pregnant, wife. “Have you told Charlus yet?”

“We haven’t been to see them in a while now have we? I think I might keep it a surprise for when the baby arrives. No doubt they’ll be at St. Mungo’s the day of.” Euphemia smiled to herself and rested her arm across her round stomach. It had been Fleamont’s request that his first child be named after the man that had been as close to a father as his own father hadn’t. However, after learning that they were expecting a baby girl, Fleamont seemed to have given up that hope—until Euphemia discovered a unique alternative in one of her many gardening books.

The young couple lounged on the sofa in the living room of their small apartment, Euphemia resting her swollen feet on her husband’s lap for a massage. Fresh out of Hogwarts, they had decided to elope, much to the dismay of Fleamont’s parents—especially his father, Henry. Because of their decision, Fleamont had been disowned of any inheritance he would have gotten from his parent’s large wealth. At first, living on their own had proven to be a tougher challenge than they had planned. Taking up two jobs as both a muggle bar man and magical custodian for the Ministry after hours, Fleamont was determined to support his wife and future child. Euphemia had discovered that she was expecting a week before their graduation from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and although she had had no doubt in her mind that Fleamont was the man that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with, she was uncertain about how the young and unmarried witch and wizard were going to make it. That is, until Fleamont contacted his Uncle Charlus for help.

Let it be known that Fleamont Potter was not one to grovel or beg—but he was also not one to let down the people he loves. His uncle--and appointed godfather--had been more than happy to lend them some startup money (money that Fleamont would not let him forget he was going to pay back) as well as help the couple find a place to stay. Charlus, being the inventor and supplier of many modern-day magical home remedies, had a large fortune to his name and no children to inherit it. For his generosity, Fleamont and Euphemia were forever grateful, and to show their gratitude they had decided to continue Charlus’ legacy in the only way they knew they could, which was to name their first child after him.

...

“You told him?” Euphemia shrieked, feigning anger at her husband as they prepared for bed later that night. She had just dressed in a nightgown and was making her way toward the bed where Fleamont lay when she had paused in light of his confession.

“I’m sorry! I couldn’t help it!” He said, catching the pillow she had playfully tossed at him. “He told me Dorea was dying to know, and you know how she feels about babies!”

Euphemia sighed. It was so hard to tiptoe around the subject anymore, what with her being close to eight months pregnant. Charlus’ wife, Dorea (Black) Potter, had always had a slight obsession with anything having to do with babies after discovering that she could not bear her own. Although Euphemia felt oddly guilty at her own uncanny fertility, she saw the joy it brought Dorea to discuss the coming child, and empathized with Fleamont’s lapse in secrecy.

“Well what did he say then?” She asked eagerly, accepting the fact that her surprise was ruined.

“Let’s just say I’ve never seen the man tear up before, Mia,” he replied with a soft smile. He watched as his wife pull back the blankets and struggled to heave herself into bed with him. She looked so beautiful bearing his child and he didn’t think it were possible to feel more love for one person than he felt in that moment. He watched her content face concentrate on lifting her feet over the edge of the bed where she sat, when suddenly her smile faltered and she let out a tiny gasp.

“Monty?” she croaked, all color drained from her face.

The man leapt out of bed, sprinting around to his wife’s side; there he saw the cause of the sudden change in the woman. On the white bed sheet a crimson puddle had begun to pool underneath where she sat. She looked up at him in horror and pain as he struggled to make his brain work again. Snapping back to reality in a panic, he cradled his wife and hoisted her off the bed, carrying her to the fireplace the same way he had carried her over the threshold seven months prior—although under very different circumstances. Struggling to tear down the jar holding the green floo powder while still cradling his shaking wife in his arms, he managed to grab a pinch and throw it into the pit before shouting “St. Mungo’s Hospital”. Together they stepped into the flame. He gently tightened his hold on her fragile frame, tucking her head under his chin as they spun through the blaze to their emergency destination, all while praying frantically for everything to be alright.

They arrived in a chaotic fashion—or rather Fleamont arrived carrying the body of his now unconscious wife and his child who could be… he didn’t want to think about that right now.

“I NEED HELP!” He roared at the closest Healers, who began magically and frantically summoning supplies and a bed. Fleamont carefully laid his pale wife on the gurney. He began to follow the Healers, all hurriedly rolling his wife toward the nearest Emergency Room, but one held him back.

“Please sir, you must wait here.”

“No! I need to go with her. Please let me go with her.” He all but sobbed, threading his fingers through his hair with a pained and half-crazed expression on his face.

“I’m sorry, only authorized personnel allowed. We will keep you informed on the status of the patient.”

_My wife and daughter, you mean!_ Fleamont wanted to retort harshly but had been unable to find his voice before the Healer followed the others into the next room. He was left to wait, agonizingly, while the fate of everything he loved lay in the hands of what seemed like everyone other than himself.

...

He hated himself. He hated being well while his wife and child were not. He hated not being in control. How long had it been now? Fleamont had to remind himself that it had not even been one hour, but there had been no news yet on the status of either Euphemia or baby Chalice. He had flooed Charlus to inform him of what happened--more to be reassured that everything would be okay--but had been forced to leave a message with their house elf, Dolly. He was contemplating sending a patronus to wherever his Godfather may be when a Healer entered the waiting area.

Fleamont braced himself for the worst.

“Your wife is okay. She is in stable condition.” Fleamont sighed a huge breath of relief that sounded more like a hysterical laugh. Mia was alive.

“I’m so sorry sir…” Began the Healer again and Fleamont’s heart skipped a beat before plummeting out of his chest.

Chalice.

The expression on the Healer’s face said it all.

“No.” Fleamont shook. “No, please. No.” Was it possible to feel such a sudden remorse for a person he had never even met? His baby. His own kith and kin. “No.” was all he could manage as he collapsed to his knees there in the hospital entrance.

...

The next few hours came in a daze. Fleamont was allowed back to see his wife who lay, still unconscious, in a hospital bed far too big for her tiny frame. He stayed by her side, shocked into silence, only briefly leaving to speak with Charlus when he had arrived, evidently receiving the message from Dolly. If anyone knew how Fleamont was feeling in the slightest, it would be Charlus—the grief of never having been able to conceive a child did not compare to the horror of losing one, but it was a small comfort, if any, that his uncle could provide him. Charlus told Fleamont that he would send Dolly for some of their things, and would move the rest to his manor, Tybalt place. There would be no need to stay in the apartment once they were free to leave the hospital, Charlus and Dorea would be more than glad to take care of them. Fleamont agreed only because he had no strength left to argue. He returned to his wife’s side and laid his head on her arm, hoping that this had all been a horrible nightmare.

“Monty?”

The faint, hoarse voice pulled Fleamont out of his uneasy slumber slouched over the hospital bed. He looked up at his wife who was pointedly staring at the ceiling and saw a tear streak down the side of her cheek.

“She’s gone.” It wasn’t a question.

Fleamont stood to hover over his wife, burying her head in the crook of his neck once more, rocking her as she sobbed over and over, “she’s gone, she’s gone.”

 

\----------

 

Walburga Black did not particularly like her husband. Orion Black was a vile brute, but he was pureblood (also her second cousin) and was the only suitable option in order for her to continue the purity of the Black line. Shortly after her graduation from Hogwarts, the couple was married and moved into the traditional home of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. Before she knew it, she was the mother of two screaming, demanding boys—but of course, this was what was expected of her. This was what any respectable pureblood witch would do for the sake of her political status and wealth.

“Kreacher!” shrieked the woman and the house elf appeared instantly out of thin air with a loud crack.

“Yes Mistress?” croaked the being adoringly. If there was one person that the elf was capable of loving, it was Walburga--and she was fully aware of this, using it relentlessly to her advantage.

“Make sure the boys are fed and in bed before we get home.” She demanded, waving her hand in the direction of the door to dismiss the elf.

“Yes Mistress, Kreacher will make sure the boys behave while you and Master Orion are gone.” The house elf bowed low before waddling off, leaving Walburga to continue grooming her nails on her cushioned parlor chair. They had a dinner with the Minister of Magic later that evening and Walburga would not look anything less than her best for it—she loved the yearning stares the Minister seemed unable to prevent for her, even in the presence of his own wife.

If not for their overwhelming wealth or psychotic tendencies, the Black family was known for their utter beauty. Even without the wellbeing and pampering that wealth provided, members of the ancient family would still be uniquely attractive—it was something in the Black genes (however incestually diluted those genes may be). Walburga was a fairly tall woman, with a frame of about five foot, eight inches and one hundred and thirty pounds. She had white gold hair that fell to her waist if she did not keep it up in a wrap-around knot at the base of her neck. Her eyes were a fierce grey, framed by long black lashes and dark lidded eyes. Her sharp cheekbones and defined jaw gave her the intense appearance of a runway model, not to mention her large, full chest she purposefully framed with corsets and low-cut blouses. She enjoyed the publicity that she received, making the front page of the Daily Prophet whenever she was caught outside of Grimmauld Place.

“Orion, are you damn near ready yet?” She shouted to her husband through the closed double doors leading into the master bedroom from her parlor. Although what Orion felt for his wife was not love, he had a soft spot for her looks and stature, and replied patiently,

“Yes dear, just a moment.” He arrived seconds later dressed in black, velvet dress robes with an emerald glinted walking cane and a top hat perched on his slightly receding hairline. Orion, having inherited the Black genes as well, was a handsome man who sported dark, slicked back hair, peppered slightly with specks of grey, and deep black eyes—black as the night sky which held the star he was named after. He held out his arm for his wife, dressed in a dark viridian satin dress and huge diamond jewelry, and they proceeded to the fire mantle, flooing directly to the Manor of the Minister himself.

...

“Ah Walburga, do tell us about your boys. No doubt fine heirs to the ancient house of Black,” purred Violette Tuft, wife of the current Minister of Magic, Ignatius Tuft. It was a futile attempt to remind the perceived goddess that she was in fact mortal--and a mother at that. They were seated around a long polished dining table under a magnificent chandelier, sipping elegantly on some champagne and soupe a l’oignon provided by the Minister’s army of house elves--the second course of a six course, gourmet dinner. The meal was a celebration of the Minister’s most recent law passed—one allowing Dementors to venture from their solitude at Azkaban to assist Aurors in covert take-down missions, having previously been prohibited anywhere other than the seas surrounding the prison island.

“Very good-looking—take after their mother, they do.” Orion gloated, and Walburga flashed a prize-winning grin at a very sour looking Violette. Orion continued to boast. “Sirius has just turned eleven, will no doubt be getting his Hogwarts acceptance letter any time now. He’ll make a fine Slytherin, he will.”

“You’d rather the boys go to Hogwarts than Durmstrang? I here Tollak has just improved his Dark Arts combative training course.” Grateful that one of the minister’s colleagues had strayed the conversation with her husband away from the unflattering fact that she was a mother of two aging boys, Walburga took a deep sip of her drink and sat back elegantly in her chair, brushing her hair out of the way of her bulging cleavage. She caught Ignatius’ stare and gave a seductive glance, batting her long eyelashes as if to say, _you could have had me instead_. He cleared his throat.

“How about the next course?” He nodded around the table at which sat ten or so of his closest colleagues or other members of high society and their wives. He had wanted the most influential people wizarding Britain as witness to his grand accomplishment. They all raised their glasses in agreement and he bowed out to fetch the servants to bring the next round of food. A moment later, Walburga excused herself to the powder room, kissing her husband pointedly on the cheek assuring him she would only be gone a moment. Orion grunted in acknowledgement but knew he didn’t want his prized and pined after wife absent from the conversation for long. He turned back to the wizard he had been in discussion with over training at Durmstrang and Walburga glided out of the room, away from the low murmur of talk and the soft clink of fine china.

Outside of the dining hall, she was suddenly pulled into a spare sitting room by a strong firm hand belonging to none other than Ignatius Tuft. He drew her into a heated embrace before whispering, “It’s been too long, Bird.”

She smiled in spite of herself. She thought herself silly now to think it had been in her imagination; he still wanted her, passionately and immediately. She had feared that Violette’s suspicions of the two had dissuaded his commitment to the affair, but Walburga had since longed for the feeling of such a powerful man wanting _her_ more than his own wife.

He ran a hand down her back to grasp her backside through the thin satin dress. She reached up and entwined a hand in his thick, grizzly brown hair before pulling his mouth back toward hers; her tongue traced delicate patterns along his and he groaned at her expert kiss.

“I knew you missed me,” she whispered seductively as his lips left hers to trace soft bites down the length of her neck. “No marks,” she reminded him harshly. He paused for a moment to kiss the top of her bosom, protruding slightly out of her satin dress.

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured back, slipping one of the straps off of her shoulder. She leaned back in agreement as he slowly slid the other off, still kissing around her neck and chest, and then brought her hands up to undo the buttons at the top of his collar. He was not an unfortunate looking man. In fact, Walburga found Ignatius more attractive than her own husband. He was tall and tanned, with a head of ruffled, brown (but greying rapidly) hair and his hazel eyes burned into Walburga’s as she traced the line of his strong, shadowed jaw with her clawed nail.

“Fuck me, Ignatius.” Walburga said as she stared into the man’s eye’s, watching as they widened briefly before he eagerly began slipping off his own dress gowns, revealing a strong, broad chest, covered with curly dark hair. Walburga ran her delicate fingers through it and smiled inwardly at the groan Ignatius produced, her nails scraping lightly down his strong torso. She grasped the waistline of his trousers, slowly pulling them down over his huge bulge and stroked it through the fabric of his undergarments. He huffed and pressed into her in agreement, his eyes closing at her expert touch. “Undress me,” she ordered, and he slid the dress down her being, eyes grazing over her flawless body as it went, taking in every inch.

She unhooked her corset rather hurriedly and allowed him to fumble with her brassiere before finally releasing her huge, full breasts. He reached up and cupped one and she felt the pressure build between her thighs at his touch. He took her into his mouth, sucking gently on her aroused nipple, and she gasped at the unfamiliar touch—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so passionately wanted. Ignatius gently pushed her toward one of the settees, still kissing on her soft skin, both now fully naked. She stroked him gently before turning them, pushing him forcibly down onto the seat. He looked up at her in awe as she stood in front of him, placed purposefully between his legs before deliberately bringing herself down to her knees. Taking his long, hard shaft in her hands, she began stroking more vigorously as he pumped into her. Leaning forward to kiss the head of his member, looking up at him seductively as she did so, she then took him fully in her mouth, throating him as far as her body would allow.

“Ah, fuck…” Ignatius panted as he held Walburga’s head, bobbing around his cock. She looked up at him, chest heaving and he pulled her up onto his lap. Her silver eyes stared into his gold as she positioned herself over his member and placed the tip of his cock against her warm, wet entrance. She slowly eased herself down around his large prick, gasping in pleasure as she was spread wider than she was used to. With a kiss of approval from Ignatius, Walburga began rocking back against his body. With each thrust, her breasts bounced beautifully in his face, and he leaned into them, kissing and sucking as she went.

“Fuck… Bird, I—” Ignatius came, thrusting deep into his mistress’ admission. She scowled.

“You bastard. I wasn’t finished with you.” She felt his body stiffen and his member begin to soften, so she relented and pushed herself off of him, cleaning them both up with a wave of her wand.

He looked at her sheepishly before saying, “I’m sorry… I couldn’t help myself—I’ve missed you so, it’s been so long.”

She softened a bit at that and they dressed in silence, arriving back (although separately) just as the next course was being served. Walburga, not a hair out of place, sat next to her husband who stiffened at the surprise of her return before continuing his argument with the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement on whether or not a “Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee” was indeed necessary.

...

“You filthy whore.” Orion spat, arriving back at Grimmauld Place that night. Walburga had prepared herself for this ever since noticing her husband’s cold demeanor throughout the rest of the dinner. She feigned innocent shock.

“What are you on about now?”

“You know bloody well what I’m talking about, Walburga. Sneaking off during dinner to shag the Minister of Magic?” His voice raised an octave at the mention of the other man but Walburga held her composure.

“I was in the powder room, question that little house elf of his, Milly. She asked if I wanted more wine and I’m wishing I would have said yes now!” Walburga shouted back, lying smoothly, and her husband’s scrutinizing glare faltered. She continued, “besides, what business would I want shagging some old bag like him? He reminds me of Uncle Alphard.” She was too good at inventing utter rubbish, for Orion softened completely at her words and looked rather ashamed of himself. There was a knock and Kreacher entered, bearing full report for Mistress Black on the activities of her sons that evening, along with the evening owl post.

“Very well, Kreacher.” Walburga dismissed the elf passively and glanced down at the stack of letters. On top was a yellowing envelope addressed to her eldest son. “Sirius’ gotten his letter finally.” She huffed, “Was beginning to think we’d be stuck with another family scandal.” She stomped off to give her son his letter before retiring for the night, much to the bewilderment of her husband who, moments before, had been the one doing the storming. If there were two things Walburga Black was Queen of, it was seduction and manipulation, both of which she used much to her advantage.

 

\----------

 

If a person were to ask Hope Howell-Lupin twenty years ago if _this_ is what she had planned her life to be, she would have all but laughed in their face. According to the woman, her life had been changed significantly and permanently precisely three times. The first, when she found out the love of her life, Lyall Lupin, was a magical wizard, and that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her (that was quite the proposal). The second, the birth of their beautiful baby boy, Remus John Lupin, at six pounds and twelve ounces at 11:23pm, March 10th, 1960. And the third time, that dreadful night six years, four months, and eleven days ago when their son was attacked by a rogue werewolf.

...

Hope Howell had been working as a student librarian at the local university when she was first introduced to Lyall Lupin. Most days were quite quiet for her, and that was the way she preferred them. Hope was brilliantly bright but just as shy as she was smart—because of this, her peers took a liking to picking on the poor young woman. Hope was what some would consider a “nerd” and was used to the frequent ridicule of other university students her age. She often times spent nights alone in her flat, finding solace in her books, so that spring morning when she had heard a loud banging coming from a supply cabinet in the library basement, she was slightly annoyed and very surprised at what she discovered.

Upon her arrival at the shaking cabinet, her first thought was that some students were attempting to play yet another joke on her. But, when she pried the nuisance of a filing cabinet open she all but fainted at what she saw.

Herself—pale and seizing, a fat rope noose tied tightly and fatally around her neck.

Hope screamed at the image of her own body flailing out of the cabinet, then lost consciousness.

When she woke up in a hard hospital bed with an IV hooked in her arm and two strange men hovering over her, she thought perhaps she was still unconscious. The sight of the two men--dressed in long, colorful robes and off kilter hats--standing near the sterilized hospital IV machine and monitor made for a pretty bizarre sight.

“Hello.” Spoke the taller of the two—a handsome young man, no older than his mid-twenties, with a mane of perfectly messed, bronze hair and a deep, soothing voice. “We’re here to ask you a couple questions on the incident that happened this morning down at the university library. Would you be able to fill us in on a few things?”

Hope nodded, unsure of whether it was because she was, in fact, willing to comply or if she just wished to continue hearing the tall, dark and handsome man speak.

“Now, where exactly were you when you fell unconscious, Miss…?”

“Howell, Hope Howell.” Hope replied timidly, “and I was in the library basement—I had heard a ruckus coming from a supply cabinet down there and thought it was some students trying to scare me but it was…” She trailed off either because she was mesmerized at the way the handsome man had smiled at her use of the word “ruckus” or because she hadn’t really known how to finish her statement. How could she explain what she had seen without sounding absolutely off her rocker?

“Go on!” Squeaked the smaller man who had been standing in the shadows of Mr. Grizzly (what Hope was now referring to the handsome man as in her head since she had not yet gotten his name).

“Please, do tell us,” soothed Mr. Grizzly, before shooting a look of annoyance at his colleague.

“I—I’m sorry but, who are you?” Hope inquired, finally realizing that she was explaining her endeavor to two complete—and strange—strangers. The pair looked slightly taken aback.

“We’re, um… we’re here from the ministry—I mean government!” squeaked the smaller, and much greyer man again. Mr. Grizzly shot him another glare. Hope was thoroughly confused at this point.

“Trout, why don’t you go speak more with the authorities, I can handle Miss Howell on my own I think.” He smiled warmly at Hope as the other man trotted out of the hospital room. Hope knew, logically, that she should be afraid to be in a room alone with a strange man, but there was something about this particular man that made her forget all sensical logic—which was a rare occurrence for the girl.

“I believe we got off on the wrong foot. I’m Lyall, Lyall Lupin. I do work for a government and am here concerning your attack earlier today. I’m only here to help.” He assured, but Hope was too caught up with his choice of words prior to his reassurance. A government? So not her government? Hope’s head, which was usually swimming with constant thought, was in an outright whirlpool of questions. Instead of asking any, however, she found herself saying,

“I was attacked by myself!”

Lyall blinked. This had obviously not been what he had expected.

Hope blushed at her sudden outburst and was about to hide her face behind the hospital sheets when a strong, firm hand suddenly rested itself on hers.

“Go on.” He said.

He hadn’t thought she was crazy. Or perhaps he was with some psych ward, come to take her away for finally cracking from constant isolation. Either way, she felt she could trust him, so it didn’t matter if she told the truth—or at least what she thought was the truth.

“Well…” She began, “like I said, I had gone down to investigate where the noise was coming from. I had expected it to be students hiding out in the filing closets downstairs but when I opened it up, I fell out—I mean, my body fell out of the cabinet, but I was also still standing there?” She looked up in a mortified confusion.

“Can you describe your body?”

Hope blushed again. Lyall, realizing the double meaning behind his words, reddened as well as he stuttered, “I—I mean, you know, the one that fell out of the cabinet!” Hope giggled. Lyall laughed. Soon they were in a state, Lyall all but lying across Hope on the hospital bed, both convulsing in fits of roaring laughter.

As the episode died down, Hope gazed at Lyall who was wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. She had known there had to be more hidden behind his serious, stern façade. She liked this guy--she trusted this guy.

“I had a noose around my neck.” She stated and Lyall stiffened at the regained seriousness. “I was pale, and… seizing? I’m not sure. All I could see were the whites of my eyes, and I was shaking. The noose was so tight around my neck, I might have just hung myself.” Her speech was barely a whisper by the end of her explanation, and Lyall looked at her, eyes wide in concern. And then he did something unexpected, yet not unwelcomed. He sat next to her on the bed and hugged her—a warm, strong, comforting hug that made Hope Howell want to break down. Of course, she would keep her composure as she always did, but she felt herself leaning into the strong man’s embrace and nothing had felt so nice in a long while.

“Can I tell you something, without sounding crazy?” Had she not heard these words in a deep, groveling voice, she would have thought they had escaped from her own mouth. Instead she just nodded into the chest of Lyall Lupin as he continued.

“First off, you’re not going insane.” He spoke into the top of her hair and she felt the deep vibrations of his chest with each word he uttered. “You did actually see yourself fall out of that cabinet, and I’ll tell you how if you promise me one thing.”

Hope pulled away from him, curiously looking up into his chocolate brown eyes.

“What would that be?”

“That you will see me again after today, say this Friday?”

She smiled at the absurdity of this stranger asking her on a date as she lay in a hospital gown with IV tubes strung through the veins in her arms, but she confidently and rather uncharacteristically replied, “of course.”

Lyall smiled, then hesitated—he looked as if he were debating on what to say next. Very carefully, he continued.

“You have to promise not to tell, it’s a code of secrecy but—”He hesitated once more before launching into a rambled and incoherent speech, “I’m a wizard. Part of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures at the Ministry of Magic—our own form of government. I specialize in Non-Human Spirituous Apparitions including Dementors, Poltergeists and Boggarts. Now usually muggles—I mean, non-magical folk like yourself—cannot sense the presence of these beings. You must have magical lineage somewhere or a truly extraordinary mind to be able to see a full apparition of a Boggart, but that is exactly what you experienced this morning. A Boggart is a magical creature that takes the shape of the thing that the person viewing it fears most. When Trout and I receive various strange reports of different “fearful” entities amassed at one location, we are summoned by the muggle government authorities to come sort it out. In this case, the Boggart got away before we were able to dispose of it, but we needed to hear your story to be sure that that was, indeed, what we were dealing with here.”

Hope blinked.

Then laughed.

Then fell over in fits of giggles, wiping her eyes yet again and struggling to form a coherent sentence.

“You—I—that is quite the dedication! Did Rosie Hindberg put you up to this? They’re always playing nasty pranks on me but this has got to be their best by far! You almost had me!” She fell over again, unable to speak any longer.

Lyall stared at her, helplessly, before pulling out a long stick from under his robes, pointing it between her eyes and muttering the word _Obliviate_. Hope slumped back onto the pillows, unconscious yet again, and Lyall slipped silently out of the room.

...

When Hope awoke the next morning, she had the faint recollection of a strange dream involving a magic wizard and a poltergeist on a noose—but more importantly she remembered the date she had agreed on with the handsome Lyall Lupin before passing out (from what she assumed was the IV sedation) in such an untimely manner. She only hoped he hadn’t minded and looked forward to their date on Friday, all while pondering how she was going to avoid Rosie and her friends and the embarrassment of their elaborate, yet scarring, prank.

 

\----------

 

This wasn’t what Margret Hubnet-Pettigrew had signed up for. The constant secrets on top of the never-ending screams emanating from her newborn son had suddenly become too much for her to handle. She had given up her post as a nurse’s aide to stay home once Peter had been born, and her husband, Glenn, was now working overtime at his masonry company to provide what he could for his small family. So not only was she unable to see the love of her life hardly at all anymore, but she was trapped in their plain flat with only her dreadful thoughts and a crying infant to keep her company.

Of course she loved her little Petey, and her time away from Glenn was filled with some positives, or perhaps only one—she could use her magic when he was away.

From underneath the sink where she stowed the muggle cleaning supplies (a place she knew Glenn would never venture) she pulled out a rather short polished stick and began waving it around the untidied kitchen. Immediately dirty pots and pans flew from the stove into the sink and began washing themselves in the sudsy water; various pieces of laundry from the wash tub flew overhead onto a line in front of the furnace to dry; and ingredients for Glenn’s favorite dish—chicken pot pie roast—began assembling themselves on the small kitchen counter. She held the screaming infant in her arms, bouncing back and forth in attempt to stifle the sobs as she watched her daily chores go about untroubled.

She sighed a breath of faint relief.

It was so hard sometimes to maintain the charade of “normal” non-magical life when you possessed the knowledge of the existence of magic.

...

When Margret, or Maggie as she was known by her close family and few friends, had met Glenn Pettigrew on a train ride to Harlow, she had immediately become fascinated by the otherwise simple looking man. It had been his weekend off and he was on his way to visit his parents. He wore a simple plaid button down and worn denim jeans that seemed just one size too small as they strained against his gut in the seat across the aisle. His dirty work boots and grease-stained hands had intrigued Maggie—they offered a story of a world she had never known. In fact, she was only on that train to gain some perspective into the everyday lives of London muggles.

“Excuse me, miss?”

Maggie came to, startled from her daydream about how strange it would be to live life as a muggle.

“Um—me?” She looked over at the man across the aisle again as this time he had addressed her directly.

“Yeah, could you tell me what stop we’re at? Seem’s I’ve lost track.”

“Stop?”

The man gave her a look of genuine concern but before he could say anything the conductor came over the intercom announcing their arrival at Harlow in just twenty minutes time. He smiled politely at a confused Maggie and turned back to his newspaper having gotten the information he needed—but this brief encounter seemed not enough for Maggie.

“Sir, what is that you’ve got there?” Maggie referred to the paper in the man’s clutch; it looked like the Daily Prophet News but none of the pictures had been moving. How strange. The man, mistaking Maggie’s intended question, replied kindly.

“Ah, not from around here are yeh? This is the Ilford Daily, I prefer it to the London Times—not as politically corrupt in my opinion.” The man chuckled to himself has if he had told a joke Maggie did not quite understand but she found herself smiling at the man’s delight.

“Right,” she replied, not sure how to continue their encounter.

“I’m Glenn—born and raised in Harlow but I decided to try the city life myself. Can’t say I’m sold yet but we’ll keep truckin’. London’s the best there is right? Where from are you?”

Maggie smiled again at the way this Glenn spoke, rougher than she had known in her muggle encounters in London. “I was born in Brighton but I moved after I finished school. Oh—and I’m Maggie.” She blushed and looked down at her hands folded in her lap.

“Well it’s right nice to meet yeh, Maggie.”

She peeked up to find him smiling at her with a look of pure longing in his gaze—or at least that was what she thought. She couldn’t be sure; a man had never looked at her in such a way.

Maggie had never been anything of extraordinary beauty—her mousey brown hair hung limp at her shoulders; her skin, although clear and smooth, remained pale under the constant London overcast; her hazel eyes remained the only redeeming quality of her plain face but they stayed hidden behind shadowy bags. She was exceptionally thin, with no “tits or ass” to show for herself as she had been reminded all through her school years. She wore a simple, floral print dress that hung well past her knees and her rain boots and polyester jacket tied in her aura of mediocrity quite nicely. Above all, however, Maggie was perfectly content with this.

“Miss Maggie, this might be a bit forward but—well, you frankly are the prettiest gal I’ve ever seen. Would you might want to go on a date with me sometime?” Maggie beamed and nodded her head in a quick “yes” and they both turned away in a fit of blushed excitement.

They had dated a mere six months before they were married, Maggie knowing in her heart she would never want anyone more than she wanted Glenn William Pettigrew. Not long after did she find out she was pregnant. With all of the new and happy excitement in her life, she did not understand why she felt this constant nagging apprehension at the back of her mind.

It was not long before she realized her grave mistake. She was married to a man that barely knew her—or barely knew the biggest part of what made her who she was. Time had passed so quickly that Maggie had not know how or when to breach the subject of her magic ability. Even more, she was terrified about how Glenn would even react.

You see, Glenn Pettigrew was nice when things were nice—normality made him complacent. When things got slightly out of order, Glenn seemed to go off his handle. Maggie remembered the night she had ordered takeout from a fancy new Asian bistro down the way—Glenn had taken one bite before launching the entire thing across the kitchen into the sink and shouting “what ever happened to good old home cooking?” Maggie had learned then and fast what Glenn had wanted from her and quickly became the good little housewife that he had come to expect.

That expectation had not been so hard to fill when she had had a job and time away from their little flat. Now, with being stuck inside all day with the baby and her wifely duties, she was beginning to see the errors in her world.

Maggie was unhappy.

As she stood in the kitchen, a bundled, baying baby cradled in her arms and inanimate items swirling magically around her, feeling nothing but apprehension and a dull sadness, she decided that it was time to tell her husband the truth.


	3. Diagon Alley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All characters owned by J.K. Rowling as part of the Harry Potter book series.  
> Comments and critiques welcomed!

James bounded down the steps two at a time.

“COME ON SLOW POKES, LET’S GET A MOVE ON!” He bellowed, sprinting from room to room with as much volume and obnoxiousness as he could muster.

“Son, calm down! We’ve only just finished breakfast, won’t you come have some?”

“NO TIME!” shrieked James once more, now resorting to pulling on his father’s shirt sleeve so as to get him moving faster. His mother came over from the kitchen sink where she had been watering Chalice’s flower, and began smoothing down her son’s untidy, untamable dark hair. He bobbed away again, circling the kitchen table this time chanting “LET'S GO” until finally Fleamont heaved himself up out of his chair and sighed.

“Better get going then, don’t think he’ll stop ‘til we do.” He chuckled as his son leaped for joy and Euphemia threw a cloak around his tiny shoulders.

“Aww, mummm.” James complained, running a hand through his hair again to purposely ruffle up what his mother had just attempted to tidy.

“Do as you’re told or we won’t go to get your things at Diagon Alley.” His father warned him, but winked knowingly. It was just before nine o’clock on Friday morning in late August when the tiny family arrived, by floo, in the mantle entrance to the Leaky Cauldron Inn. The old barkeep nodded to James’ father in recognition as the family crossed the dark, but cozy, restaurant area of the worn hotel. A couple of the tables were occupied by traveling wizards, catching the continental breakfast that the Inn offered--but in the far corner a tall silhouette was perched at a table set for four, gazing curiously at the Potters as they made their way to the back door of the bar toward Diagon Alley. Fleamont was the first to notice him.

“Ah! Professor Dumbledore, what a surprise!” Fleamont ambled over and shook the older wizard’s hand eagerly. Albus Dumbledore smiled kindly at Fleamont, then at Euphemia, and finally down at little James, who trembled slightly at the sight of his new headmaster.

“Good morning Fleamont, what a pleasant surprise indeed. Why, I haven’t seen you and Euphemia since your days at Hogwarts. Funny how time passes so quickly.” He gazed down at James once more, and James couldn’t help but think that those piercing blue eyes had x-ray vision. Dumbledore tossed his waist-length grey (yet still with hints of auburn) beard over his shoulder as he bent down to address James. “And you must be little James Charlus? Come to get your school supplies have you? I do suspect you will be needing a wand yet, am I not mistaken?” James gulped a little before nodding in agreement. “Ah, yes… I remember receiving my first wand. Took Gervaise Ollivander three and a half hours to sort me…” He trailed off and James didn’t know how to respond--luckily for him he didn’t have to. “Ah, here we are. If you’ll excuse me dear Potter family, I have some business to attend to.”

Fleamont shook Dumbledore’s hand one last time, and Dumbledore parted with Euphemia by kissing hers. He smiled one last time down at James as his father guided him away toward the back door of the Inn. James peered over his shoulder at the family Dumbledore was now greeting—a man with nothing short of a greying bronze lion’s mane, a small blonde woman that greatly resembled a librarian like the one James knew from the bookshop by their home in Quail Covey, and a small, very tired-looking boy who had to be around James’ age yet appeared much scrawnier—sicker even. James caught one last glimpse of the family being seated around Dumbledore’s table before his parents ushered him away.

James had been to Diagon Alley plenty of times before, but each time was just as amazing as the last. They entered through the brick wall stationed behind the Leaky Cauldron, which was the most public and easily accessed entrance to the Alley. Once through, the world opened up to a cobblestone road with cozy shops lining the walkways and witches and wizards from all over Britain bustling about, running early morning errands.

“What first?” Asked Euphemia to her son with a soft smile.

“Wand. Definitely wand.”

And so, they made their way down to Ollivander’s wand shop.

 

...

“I don’t see why Kreacher couldn’t just have taken me,” grumbled Sirius as he strode next to his mother, cameras flashing at every corner they turned.

“Wouldn’t want to miss an opportunity to spend a day with my lovely son now would I? Smile you little toad, we might make the front page of the prophet,” she hissed through her teeth, her lips plastered in a permanent, dazzling smile for the paparazzi. Sirius grimaced, not wanting to feel the wrath of his mother when they returned home later that night. They had arrived in Diagon Alley at Walburga’s favorite boutique, Purely Pristine, where they had been added to private floo network as part of the manager’s attempt to be recognized by the Black family and, ultimately, receive more publicity.

“Why couldn’t Regulus come?”

“Because I wasn’t about to drag two little booger-nosed brats around with me all day, now was I? he’ll get his chance next year when he goes to Hogwarts,” she snapped. “Come. We’ll get your wand first, it’s right next door.”

They arrived at Ollivanders moments later, escaping the clicks and flashes of numerous press cameras all attempting to catch the iconic moment of the ancient house of Black’s heir receiving his first wand. Walburga fanned her face and cleared her throat, directing all attention in the store to her. There was a family of three stationed at the front counter, discussing wandlore with the store owner and famous wandmaker, Garrick Ollivander. Ollivander looked up from the counter and his eyes widened at his newest customers.

“Madame Black, I--I wasn’t expecting your presence this morning!” He stuttered slightly at the shock of the intimidating and influential woman standing in his meek and dusty store. “Excuse me if you will.” Ollivander addressed the family he had been previously helping and strode over to Walburga and Sirius. “Has young Master Black come for his wand?”

“No, you blithering idiot, we’re here shopping for rat poison. Of course he’s here for his wand, and we’d like to find it as quickly as possible if you please. I’d rather not be stuck here for hours as I know it takes you to do fittings sometimes.” She glared at the slightly taken aback wandmaker who quickly shook out of his stupor and nodded, before running to the back room to fetch an armful of wands for Sirius to test.

_You don’t have to be so rude all the time_ , Sirius wanted to say but held his tongue. He glanced at the only other people in the tiny shop, the family that’s service had been so rudely interrupted by the arrival of members of the apparently more important Black family. He saw a young boy who looked to be his age, scowling at Sirius from behind his father for having been prevented from getting his long-awaited wand. To his surprise, the man standing in front of the boy addressed his mother as if she were anyone off the street.

“Hello Walburga, haven’t had the pleasure of seeing you in quite some time. If you remember me that is. I’m Fleamont Potter, Dorea’s nephew.” Walburga raised her perfectly manicured eyebrows at him, yet did not scowl or shout as Sirius had expected.

“Ah, yes, Dorea. How is she?”

“Doing very well actually, just had her and Charlus over for dinner the other evening, one last hoorah before my boy, James, here goes off to Hogwarts.” He addressed his son by patting him on the shoulder, “I expect that’s why you and your son are here today? Shopping for school supplies no doubt? Is this young Sirius?” Fleamont smiled at the boy who also happened to be his distant cousin, albeit unbeknownst to the child.

“Yes,” Walburga replied, draping her clawed hand on her own son’s shoulder but not saying anything else, perhaps attempting to restrain being rude to her aunt’s other family.

Fleamont cleared his throat to break the rather uncomfortable silence. “Er--very well then. We should get the boys together sometime for a play date, it was so nice seeing you again. Nice to meet you Sirius.” The man smiled at Sirius and Sirius smiled back briefly, before looking back at his stone-faced mother who was staring off into the distance, who had given a curt nod but was now pointedly avoiding eye contact with the Potters. Fleamont sensed their conversation was no longer wanted and the Potter family turned back to the wands laid out upon the counter. Just then, Ollivander came bustling back in carrying an armful of long leather boxes, each containing a wand he hoped would suit the young Sirius Black. He laid the boxes in a line in front of the young man and opened the first one.

“Cedar, phoenix feather core, ten inches exactly… Go ahead son, give it a wave.”

Sirius obeyed--nothing happened.

Walburga scoffed in annoyance and Ollivander hurriedly took the wand from the boy’s hand. He nervously glanced at the duchess, obviously wanting to appease her irritation. “Here you are,” he said, handing Sirius another long stick, “Black Walnut, dragon heartstring, eleven and a half inches.” Again, the wand yielded no results, and Ollivander snatched it up once more. The process went on for what seemed like ages. Ollivander’s selections ranged from Ebony to Hawthorn wood, alternating between the three usual cores he supplied (dragon heartstring, phoenix feather and unicorn hair). He tried different combinations of lengths, but nothing seemed to yield any magnificent magic. Sirius was able to hover a piece of paper or send a jet of weak light across the room, but nothing to the extraordinaire of Ollivander’s other successful clients. The wandmaker was almost stumped--almost.

Usually, woods and cores would be similar amongst people in the same family, and the Black family took a particular liking to the heavier and darker sets of wand woods. He had gone through every possible wood and core combination of any of the other living Black family members.

“You have got to be kidding me.” Walburga growled as Sirius failed with yet another wand. They had been there for close to an hour now, the Potters now waiting patiently and curiously on a plush sofa in the corner. “Can’t you for once be like the rest of the family? It only took me five minutes to find my wand!” Walburga shrieked at her son, who glared back at his mother as if to ask how this could possibly be his fault. Ollivander watched the transaction between mother and son with interest.

“Wait here,” he said, bustling off once again.

“As if we haven’t been doing that for the past hour.” Walburga rolled her eyes and Sirius repressed the urge to shout at the woman who unfortunately also happened to be his birth giver.

Ollivander returned, saying nothing but, “dogwood, meteor dust and rougarou hair, ten and a half inches.” He handed the wand to Sirius.

At the precise moment, the wood touched his hand, Sirius knew that this was his wand--the wand he was destined to be paired with. His hand warmed and tingled at the feel of the smooth wood, and a jet of silver-starry sparks erupted from the tip. Sirius beamed.

“Interesting.” Ollivander mused.

“What’s interesting?” Walburga snapped, yet excited--not that her son had found his channel of magic but rather that she was about to be able to leave the stuffy little store.

“Well it’s just that, family members usually tend toward the same makes of wands. As far as I can recall, no one in the line of Black’s has ever had a dogwood frame. As for the core, well, I tend to shy away from rougarou hair, it can be very temperamental… but I was able to calm the rogueness slightly by the addition of meteor dust. This particular core is still in the experimentation process really but, well, the wand chooses the wizard.” He gazed in wonder, not at the boy, but rather the wand the boy was holding. Walburga cleared her throat again, pointedly.

“Well then, how much?”

“Um well, this core is particularly rare…” began Ollivander who was interrupted by Walburga’s angry snarl.

“How. Much.” She stated again.

“30 galleons.”

Walburga handed the gold coins over to the wandmaker as if it were no issue, never mind the fact that it was indeed a small fortune. The wandmaker stared in awe at the money in his clutch as the woman pulled her son hastily out of the store.

 

...

Remus Lupin sat quietly between his parents at the sticky table in the dimly lit Inn. Hands folded timidly in his lap, he peeked up from his otherwise intent concentration on the scars on his knuckles, to study the man across the table. He was a strange and incredible man, unlike anyone Remus had ever seen, but the boy glanced away quickly when piercing blue eyes met his.

“Yes, I assure you Lyall, that has all been taken into consideration.”Remus watched again as the wise, older man gave his father a kind smile. Albus Dumbledore spoke softly, barely above a loud whisper, but there was an air of undeniable authority and trust in it that Remus could not ignore. He had never thought he would meet someone that would seem more all-knowing than his own father, but there sat living proof in midnight blue robes and a long, silver glinted beard.

“And did you have a place in mind where the transformation could take place? I’m sure the dungeons are hardly inconspicuous enough not to cause alarm.”His father’s question had not been intended as rude, but there was a slight edge to his voice nonetheless as he questioned his son’s wellbeing.

“We have made accommodations in the nearby Hogsmeade village.”

“Away from the school?” His mother asked in concern.

“Yes,” Albus replied without change in expression. “Our School Healer, Madame Pomfrey--a woman whom I would, and have, trusted with my own life--will escort him to and from the location. Security measures have been implemented to prevent any students from stumbling upon the passageway to young Remus’haven. Madame Pomfrey has agreed, as well, to keep watch on him throughout transformation nights using these mirrors.”

Albus handed Hope Lupin a medium sized, silver framed mirror—the pair to which he held in his own hand--and smiled gently when the woman gasped as she examined the reflection. In in the mirror where she had expected to see her own plain reflection was the image of the half-moon spectacled wizard sitting across from her.

“Oh!” Was all she could say.

“One will be placed on the walls of the room in which your son will be free to transform—unchained, might I add…”Remus shrunk a little at the thought of his chains in the old slave house at his home, and beside him he heard his mother give out a soft cry—he could only imagine how hard it had been for her to watch her husband chain up their only son. “The other one,” Dumbledore continued, having politely ignored the Lupin’s discomfort at his mention of the restraints, “will remain on Madame Pomfrey’s office desk where she will be able to keep watch on your boy throughout the night. We have enchanted her office so as to allow apparition out in case of emergency--but we ask that that information remain between the five of us for safety measurements. Of course, if needed, I would be able to assist immediately as well.”

Remus had glanced up again, this time eyes wide in shock, as the man in front of him spoke so easily about the horrendous monthly occurrence he had had to endure for so long. How would his headmaster or the school medi-witch ever possibly help him at such a time of such danger? How could they? His father seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

“Albus, what could you possibly do to help him?”

The wise old man smiled calmly yet again, and addressed Remus’ father softly, as if explaining a simple concept to a young child.

“Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who need it.”

 

...

James Potter flexed his newly purchased wand in his left hand. Although he had been in Ollivander’s shop for well over an hour, it had only taken fifteen minutes for him to be paired with his eleven inch, mahogany and phoenix feather wand. Most of the time had been spent observing a boy called “Serious” Black try out what seemed like every wand in the shop. James hadn’t been bored really, he had found it entertaining to watch the boy’s reaction to his mother’s annoyance, often times mocking her when her back was turned, and smiling smugly at the anger his delay was causing her. When the boy had first arrived, James was angered that his session with Ollivander had to be interrupted to accommodate for members of the famous Black family. However, he soon changed his mind about the boy he was apparently related to. James really hadn’t had any close friends--sure he got along well enough with the boys at the schoolhouse in Quail Covey--but none of them shared the same lust for mischief as James like the Black boy had seemed to.

The small family ambled down Diagon Alley, weaving in and out of shops, collecting all materials necessary for James Potter’s first term at Hogwarts. As the day progressed, there seemed to be more and more children James’ age (and older) excitedly shopping with their guardians for school supplies. In the bookshop called Flourish and Blotts, James spotted again the sickly boy to whom Dumbledore had been meeting with in the Leaky Cauldron. He was engrossed in a rather large book for a child of eleven, and was excitedly pointing out something on the page to his librarian-looking mother. They must really love books, thought James as he collected only the necessary books assigned for all first years and exited the bookshop as quickly as he could.

When all of their shopping had been finished, Euphemia suggested they make a stop at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour. James got his favorite: pumpkin spice with caramel topping, and dragon shaped sprinkles that changed all different kinds of colors. He made sure to get extra sprinkles in case some of them decided to fly away like they were often known to. The happy family sat outside of the parlour, watching all of the other families bustle about, excitedly reuniting with friends they hadn’t seen over summer holiday, or stopping to examine displays in the countless shop windows. James watched a particular pair curiously--a small, pudgy boy was helping a stumbling woman along over to a nearby bench. The boy carried a large sack full of books and robes, as if the pair had been shopping all day, and sighed tiredly as he sat the older woman down on a bench. She collapsed, head lolling back in a dazed, half-sleep. Euphemia tapped her son lightly on the shoulder.

“Don’t stare honey, it’s not polite.”

James went back to slurping his ice cream, but his eyes wandered ever-so-often over to the woman sitting on the bench. The round boy had temporarily left to enter the nearby wand shop, and James wondered who the woman was and why she was so tired--it was only two in the afternoon. The young boy returned fairly quickly, slipping the long box containing his new wand into the sack he was carrying, and shook the woman awake before hoisting her back off the bench. They sauntered off together, the boy supporting the lagging weight of who James was assuming was the boy's mother--as they shared the same dirty blonde colored hair and short stature—and watched as they disappeared into the back entrance of the Leaky Cauldron.

“It’s sad, isn’t it?” Euphemia asked her husband, who nodded solemnly. James wanted to ask _what’s sad_? But just then his father asked him if he wanted to go look at the quidditch brooms and all thought of the hefty boy and his mother fled his mind immediately.

 

...

Peter stared up at the ceiling of his little bedroom in the rundown flat he called home. He was lying in bed, listening intently to the snores of his drunken mother, ensuring that she was still asleep on the couch where Peter had dropped her when they had arrived home from Diagon Alley earlier that day. He had gotten all of the necessary materials for his departure for Hogwarts that following Monday, but it seemed so far away now that he was trapped back in the apartment for the weekend, rather than in the magical world in which he belonged. His trips to Diagon Alley never seemed long enough, but it was difficult to explore the excitement of the shops with a drunk mother in tow. He sighed--he couldn’t wait to be at Hogwarts. He fell asleep that night dreaming of the scarlet train that would take him away from his mother and the miserable life he had led thus far.


	4. Room for one more?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All aboard the Hogwarts Express (:

Remus dragged his trunk across the carpeted walkway of the train into one of the many still empty compartments. He and his parents had arrived an hour early to the station to ensure that Remus would not miss his departure to the first magical school that had ever allowed a person with his condition to attend. They may have been a tad too punctual however, because Remus had been one of only three students already on the platform saying their goodbyes to family. Lyall had to get back to work at the ministry, so the Lupin family goodbye had been brief, but Remus promised to write and would see them in three short months for Christmas Holiday. He had been the first student to board the train and picked a compartment toward the back--he hoped it would be quieter there so he could read peacefully. He waved goodbye to his parents out of the train window before they disapparated and then he curled up on the cushioned bench of the compartment and settled in with a book about the history of Hogwarts. He would occasionally glance out at the appearing students bustling about platform nine and three quarters, saying hello to old friends and saying goodbye to family. He could hear the train filling with bodily voices and wondered how much longer they had until they departed from the station, when there was a knock on the compartment door.

  
“Uh, come in,” Remus called meekly as the door opened and in walked a boy, about his age, with untidy black hair and round-framed glasses.

  
“Hi,” the boy smiled brightly, “is it alright if I ride in here? Everywhere else is filling up...there was a compartment with a couple of sixth year girls but I don’t think they really fancied me in there…” He laughed and plopped down across from Remus and held out his hand. “I’m James.”

  
Remus set down his book carefully and took the boy’s hand, “Remus” he answered quietly.

  
“First year, right?” James asked, eyeing up the small, sickly looking boy whom he had known previously from the meeting with Dumbledore. Now that he was in close proximity he could see prominent scars running across the boy’s cheeks and over the bridge of his nose. James wondered what they were from but dared not ask in case he scare away the only boy his age he had met so far.

  
“Yeah, you were in Leaky Cauldron on Friday,” Remus stated and James nodded with a smile, but their introductions were then interrupted by the loud bang of the door sliding open once more. In bursted none other than Sirius Black, panting slightly and brushing his long black hair out of his bright, grey eyes.

  
“Room for one more?” He smiled and strode in before either of the other occupants could protest. James raised his eyebrows at Remus who just shrugged and went back to his book. “Hey, you’re the bloke from Ollivanders!” Sirius stated at James. James laughed nervously and held out his hand as well.

  
“Yeah, I think we’re like cousins or something? I’m James...Potter,” he added.

  
“Yeah, I’m pretty much cousins with everyone. Sirius, Sirius Black.” He smiled and shook the other boy’s hand, then turned to Remus. Remus looked up, surprised the boys had actually taken interest in him.

  
“Er, I’m Remus Lupin” _eleven year old werewolf, nice to meet you!_ He added sarcastically in his head. Sirius beamed at the small boy nonetheless and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees.

  
“Whatcha reading?” He asked slyly.

  
“Uh, Hogwarts, A History.” Remus replied shyly, embarrassed suddenly at his choice in novel. He should have been reading Wylie the Werewolf comics (which were surprisingly accurate as werewolf fiction novels came) or something more eleven-year-old-boy appropriate. Before he could act on the embarrassment, however, there was a sudden burst of laughter from compartments around them. The boys looked curiously out their compartment window onto the platform for the source of the commotion. Struggling against the weight of his trunk, and the mass of his own body, a young boy--the same young boy who James had seen outside of Florean’s Ice Cream Parlour--ran alongside the train as it slowly began moving out of the station.

  
“Poor bloke.” James said, suddenly feeling sorry for the boy.

  
“Should we tell the conductor to stop?” Remus asked worriedly.

  
“Nah, it's kinda funny watching him run,” Sirius laughed and Remus glared at him, although his act went unnoticed by the arrogant boy.

  
“Look he’s catching up!” The train was still crawling slowly on the tracks but the boy had reached the closest stairwell and had heaved his trunk onto the first step before grabbing hold of the handle and hoisting himself up and out of view of the three boys already seated safely inside the compartment. They sat back down, their interest in the pudgy boy subsiding when all of a sudden their door slid open yet again. Standing in the doorway was none other than the rather sweaty, heavily wheezing, sad looking boy. The boys all blinked at each other.

  
“Can I sit with you guys?”

  
It wasn’t like the boys were going to refuse this poor boy a spot in their compartment just to spare themselves the embarrassment of being associated with the fat kid running after the train, but there was a slight hesitation among James and Sirius nonetheless. Remus, however, replied instantly.

  
“Of course!”

  
The boy ambled in and sat down to catch his breath.

  
“What are you called?” Sirius asked rather rudely, staring at the boy like a flea-ridden rat.

  
“Peter.” The boy wheezed looking timidly around the cabinet at the other boys. “Are you guys all first years too?” They nodded.

  
“Quite the entrance, mate.” James laughed in a friendly manner and Sirius roared, punching him lightly in the arm. Peter flushed but laughed in agreement along with the other boys.

  
“Mum lost track of time,” he answered shyly. The train was now in full motion and the boys talked excitedly about what they thought Hogwarts was going to be like. They were joined a little later by a crying red-headed girl--the boys let her be as she sat in the corner, but James couldn’t seem to stop glancing over at her every few minutes, as if debating whether or not to ask if she was alright. The boys got lost yet again in rowdy conversation and hardly noticed when the compartment door slid open one last time for a sourly looking, greasy haired boy already dressed in his school robes. He sat down across from the pretty red-head girl, placing a hand on her knee.

  
“I don’t want to talk to you.” She said, choking a little on her tears.

  
“Why not?” asked the sullen boy, taken aback.

  
“Tuney h-hates me. Because we saw that letter from Dumbledore.” James, Sirius, Peter and Remus were barely paying any attention to the conversation happening between their newest occupants--barely.

  
“So what?” the greasy-haired boy asked, then winced a little at the look of deep dislike the girl gave him.

  
“So, she’s my sister!”

  
“She’s only a--” but he stopped talking abruptly, unnoticed by the girl. “But we’re going!” he shouted excitedly, “This is it! We’re off to Hogwarts!” The girl nodded, mopping at her eyes and half smiled at the boy before remembering her anger. “You’d better be in Slytherin,” the boy said, obviously encouraged at the girls lapse of disdain.

  
“Slytherin?” James suddenly turned to the pair, a growing dislike for the greasy haired boy who had mentioned the most evil house of the four. “Who wants to be in Slytherin? I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?” He addressed Sirius who, for once the entire trip, did not smile back.

  
“My whole family have been in Slytherin,” he replied glumly.

  
“Blimey,” James said in slight shock, “and I thought you seemed alright!” The boys laughed.

  
“Maybe I’ll break the tradition. Where are you heading, if you’ve got the choice?”

  
James mimed lifting an invisible sword. “Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart!” James quoted the saying Fleamont had always told him, “Like my dad.”

  
The greasy little boy made a noise of disgust and James rounded on him quickly.

  
“Got a problem with that?” He didn’t like this boy poking fun at his father.

  
“No,” sneered the boy, “If you’d rather be brawny than brainy--”

  
“Where’re you hoping to go, seeing as you’re neither?” Sirius retorted, defending his new friend. James roared with laughter, Peter giggled nervously, and Remus buried his face further into his book in attempt to avoid any form of confrontation. Suddenly the little red-haired girl bolted up, looking from James to Sirius back to James. James’ smile faltered slightly.

  
“Come on, Severus, let’s find another compartment.” She snapped.

  
“Ooooooo…” James and Sirius mocked, attempting to trip the boy called Severus as he stood to leave.

  
“See ya, Snivellus!” Sirius called, and the boys roared once again.

  
“What a prick.” Peter interjected as the compartment door slid closed and James slapped him on the back in agreement much to the delight of Peter, now having seemingly been accepted by his fellow classmates.

  
“You know, you didn’t have to be so mean…” Remus chimed in quietly. Sirius leaned forward, elbows on his knees again.

  
“How’s your book there, honey?”

  
Remus rolled his eyes and blushed as he went back to reading in silence. James and Sirius began a game of exploding snap, Peter watching enthusiastically from the side, and the train rolled on, closer and closer to their new life at Hogwarts.

 

Peter beamed from where he sat in the corner of the small train compartment. The boys had paused their game of exploding snap briefly to go change into their school robes, but had resumed it right after and only stopped again to buy some food off the trolley to satisfy their rumbling stomachs. They were now discussing pranks they thought they’d like to try when they got to school. Most of the discussion was between James and Sirius, but they would ask Peter for his opinion every so often and Peter would reply, much to the approvement of the other boys, with an “excellent!” or a “bloody brilliant!” Peter’s goal for his first year of boarding school had been to make some friends, he just hadn’t imagined he would make them before he even got to the school itself.

  
“What about sending a howler to old Snivvy as our first prank, it could say something like ‘wash your hair you big grease ball!’” Sirius pondered excitedly to the approving nods of James and Peter.

  
“That’ll never work.”

  
The boys all looked to the corner of the compartment, startled at the sudden opinion of the otherwise silent Remus.

  
“Yeah? And why not?” Implored Sirius, leaning arrogantly toward the scrawny, scarred boy.

  
“O.P.P.A.--Owl Post Protection Act. It’s a magical Owl Screening system. Ever since the Grindelwald attacks toward Dumbledore, all mail in and out of Hogwarts is filtered magically; any unknown or anonymous senders are thrown out.” Remus replied smartly and Sirius slumped back in defeat.

  
“Fine, fine. What do you suggest then?”

  
“Perhaps some magical itching powder in his robes, you could sneak into his trunk right now if you’d like…” he said, reaching down into a bag below his seat and pulling out a small green bottle.

  
“Where’d you get that?” Asked Peter in awe.

  
“Snuck it in the cart when mum was checking out at the apothecary shop, thought it might come in handy at school,” replied Remus with a shrug.

  
“Remus Lupin’s a bad boy?” Sirius exclaimed with mock shock.

  
“Do you want it or not?” the boy snarled back before James snatched it out of his hand excitedly.

  
“Of course we do! Sirius you coming with me?”

  
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Sirius smiled devilishly as he and James exited the compartment to go find Severus’ trunk. Remus went back to his reading but not before Peter could add interruption.  
“Why’d you do that? I thought you were for sure a goody-two…” he trailed off at the sour look on the other boy’s face. “What?”

  
“I’m not a goody-two shoes. And that Severus bloke deserves it more than anyone. He’s the sort destined to become a death eater, wanting to be in slytherin.” He turned back to his book and Peter got the hint that he didn’t want to be disturbed. Remus would never admit why he so hated even the thought of anyone associated with death eaters, but his father’s trouble with the ministry and the attack on his five-year-old self had a little something to do with it. Remus did not feel bad for his involvement in the prank toward the boy Severus one bit.

  
Twenty minutes later James and Sirius appeared, clutching their sides and gasping for breath, both sporting wide, wild grins.

  
“We did it.” Sirius stated with a laugh and high-fived James proudly. Remus attempted to stifle a smile.

  
“Glad you pulled it off, would have been quite the story if you’d been caught and expelled before you even set foot on school grounds.”

  
“Aww, don’t be a poor sport Remy, it was your idea, you would have been expelled too.” Sirius teased.

  
“Come on guys, we’re nearly there. Better get our things together.”

 

The train pulled into the station and the boys, along with the rest of the students, emptied into the dark, crisp night. A large body of a man that stood close to eight feet tall was directing students to their appropriate destinations--toward the carriages that pulled themselves--or, for those in first year, toward the lake to approach the castle by boat. The boys stuck together as all first years boarded tiny boats (four at a time) and followed the giant called Hagrid across what he had pointed out was the Black lake. Sirius had already taken ownership of the body of water that he was sure had been named after himself.

  
“They knew I was coming, see? Already named the lake after me.” At which Remus rolled his eyes, Peter giggled in slight awe at his famous new friend, and James gave him a light punch.  
“Right, ‘ere ye go. Follow me then, up them steps now.” The students all climbed the front steps of the huge luminous castle to a strict looking lady silhouetted in the light of the open front doors. “‘Ere ye are, Professor McGonagall. Made it o’er no problem.” Hagrid grunted before sauntering off back toward the lake. James stared after the large, wild looking man, trying to comprehend how a half-giant had ever been allowed employment at Hogwarts. His attention was drawn back to present by a strong, cold and very heavy Scottish accent.

  
“First years, welcome to Hogwarts. If you would please follow me this way to the great hall for your sorting. No talking.” There was a slight murmur of excitement, and Professor McGonagall cleared her throat dangerously. The murmur died at once. “This way.”

  
James was in awe. Never before had he seen anything at all like the Hogwarts castle. Large stone columns lined the torch-lit marble halls, grand staircases magically moved overhead of the students as they passed by numerous suits of armor, and images in the pictures on the walls dashed from frame to frame, pointing and whispering excitedly at the group of new faces. His new home away from home was more magical than he could have ever imagined. The students descended a small flight of stairs and rounded the corner to two grand, polished wood doors which McGonagall pushed open to enter the great hall. As the first-years bustled in, they were greeted by the rest of the student population, all seated at four lengthy, polished mahogany tables. At the head of the hall was another table, lined perpendicular to the others, at which sat all of the teachers of Hogwarts. In the center of the head table sat the unmistakable Albus Dumbledore, his greying auburn beard laid down the front of his midnight blue robes, his pointed hat perched precariously on his head as he peered down his long crooked nose through his half-moon spectacles.

  
“Blimey, is that him?” James heard Peter whisper from somewhere behind him.  
The students were lined up in front of the head table and Dumbledore stood, addressing the entire school.

  
“Ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards from all over the world, I greet you: Welcome to Hogwarts. I know by your long journey you must all be famished so may we start the sorting immediately, I’ll save all the chit chat for a later time.” As he sat, a loud screech sounded from the door at the back of the hall. All heads turned to investigate the noise as a large, scarlet bird swooped over the heads of the students carrying what looked like an old ratted, brown package. It landed gracefully, just in front of the first years, on a stool placed in the center of the room.

  
“Phoenix” stated Remus, knowingly.

  
The phoenix swooped out again and the ratted package stirred and sat upright, revealing its true stature--a patched and worn hat, whose brim split open into what looked like a mouth which began to sing. James was too shocked to comprehend any of the hat’s song, but it ended its tune and the students all erupted in a brief fit of cheers and whistles, until McGonagall stepped forward with a list of names and cleared her throat.

  
“Aubrey, Bertram!” And the sorting began as the hat was placed on the head of a young, short haired boy who was instantly sorted into Ravenclaw. Two hufflepuffs, a slytherin and another ravenclaw followed before “Black, Sirius!” was called. James thumped his new friend on the back as he strode to the front of the pack, knowing full well that this could be the last he ever interacted with the boy--if they were sorted into separate houses, it would be very difficult for the boys to continue their antics and budding friendship. The room fell silent as Sirius positioned himself on the stool. McGonagall gave a forced smile as the sorting hat was placed on his head and...nothing. For the first time since the hat had been introduced that night, it was at a loss for words.

  
“Hmm.” It pondered. “Another Black.”

  
One of the professors, a man dressed in emerald robes sporting a walrus mustache, leaned forward over the head table to get a better look at the boy seated on the stool. The usually calm, cool and collected Sirius sat frozen in fear and anticipation on the hard seat. Why hadn’t the hat sorted him into Slytherin yet? It was his fate, wasn’t it? His whole family, as far as he could remember, had been sorted into Slytherin.

  
“I realize that.” The hat spat, and Sirius flushed, realizing the hat was capable of reading every thought buzzing through his mind. He tried not to think anything. He tried not to think of the disappointment he would bring his parents. He tried not to think of how badly he did not want to be like the rest of his foul family. Finally the hat spoke again, quietly at first so that only Sirius could hear.

  
“You have a strange and daring mind Sirius Black, but I can understand why you do not wish to follow in your family’s footsteps,” before shouting, “GRYFFINDOR!”

  
Sirius Black was the first first-year to amble over to the far left table whose ribbons sported a scarlet and gold lion, and was greeted with enthusiastic whoops and claps on the back by the older students. The sorting went on, but the young boy called Sirius Black could only sit in shock at the unforeseen outcome of the traditional house sorting.

  
A few dozen students followed Sirius’ sorting, two or three being sorted into Gryffindor as well, but Sirius was not paying any attention, his thoughts all jumbled in a confused daze, until the name “Lupin, Remus!” was called, and his attention was snapped back to the sickly looking boy climbing his way toward the stool. Sirius had noticed that Remus was a full head shorter than the other boys. He looked as though he could be years younger than the rest of the class, but Sirius knew already that he was advanced well-beyond most of the students when it came to academics. Sirius figured that Remus would undoubtedly be placed in Ravenclaw, the house of gifted minds, and could not for the life of him figure out why he felt a twinge of sadness for being separated from the intriguing boy. That is why Sirius Black was the loudest to cheer when the hat that was placed on the boy’s head called out “Gryffindor!”

  
“Look at you Remy!” He acknowledged the boy as he took a seat next to Sirius, smiling sheepishly.

  
“I’m just happy to be here at all.” Remus stated, receiving a curious glance from the other boy.

  
The two watched together as a few more students got sorted into each of the various houses before Peter, another friend made on the long train ride, was called up to the stand. The chubby boy stumbled a little on his way up toward the stool and a ripple of sniggers ran through the hall resulting in a very red-faced Peter Pettigrew. Sirius and Remus looked at one another--there was no way this mousy, timid boy would be put in the brave house of Gryffindor. Peter climbed up onto the stool with great difficulty and McGonagall placed the sorting hat on his mousey-brown, chopped hair. The sorting hat took a moment, and then very deliberately, as if to reprimand anyone who had laughed at the boy, shouted “GRYFFINDOR!” Remus turned toward Sirius who had his jaw dropped dramatically in shock. Peter scrambled toward the Gryffindor table hurriedly, avoiding all eye contact until he had plopped down across from the two boys he had met on the train.

  
“Blimey, thought for sure I’d be in Hufflepuff like my mum!” He huffed, and Sirius laughed causing Remus to shake his head. The sorting hat had obviously seen something in the boy that the others couldn’t.

  
“Shhh, James is up!”

  
James was sorted, unsurprisingly, into Gryffindor along with his newfound friends and the sorting was finished soon after. The hall silenced as Dumbledore stood to speak once again.

  
“Now that we have all found place in our new, or for some of you old, homes, I invite you to eat!” Just then all of the golden plates and goblets spread across the table filled magically with roasts and potatoes, pumpkin juices and puddings. The boys dug in, Peter helping himself to seconds before the other boys were done with their own plates. With stomachs soon filled, Dumbledore rose yet again for last words before their departure.

  
“I have a few final announcements.” Silence fell. “I would like to announce that Professor Melburn is here to temporarily fill in our Defence against the Dark Arts post. As always, the Forest on the outer edge of the Black Lake is off limits to any and all students.” He looked pointedly around. “And, I wish to put a strict enforcement on our nightly curfew. Although all students have been warned that they must be back in their dormitories by nightfall, just a friendly reminder that any student caught out of bed will be given suited punishment by myself. This is especially pertinent this school year.” His kind smile did not match his stern words. “Now, off to bed!” And at that he was gone, followed by the rest of the teachers headed back to their own chambers. The Heads of houses rose, followed by all prefects, directing new students to their respective dormitories. The boys walked together, up changing staircases, past countless moving portraits all chiming words of congratulations to the passing students. They arrived at a painting of a fairly large woman, dressed in a frilly pink gown and seated in front of a vineyard backdrop. Their Head Boy, a seventh year called Weasley, or something of the sort, was about to mutter the password to the painting of the lady and then remembered suddenly that all first years would need to know the password as well.

  
“Dukuwaga,” he spoke and the portrait of the fat lady swung open revealing a round hole in the wall, in which the students climbed and entered the Gryffindor common room. The chamber was a warm, circular enclosement with soft plush armchairs centered around a fireplace on one wall and study tables lining the other. Toward the back room were two separate staircases leading up to other floors of the cozy tower.

  
“Boy’s to the left, girl’s dormitories to the right--and don’t go trying to sneak into each other's rooms like last year! I hear Dumbledore has set up some new hexes on any perpetrators.” The red-haired prefect known as Arthur chuckled at himself but slouched off when his laugh was met with silent blinks from the group of first years. There were students still gathered in the cushioned chairs, catching up with friends and discussing their summer holiday activities. Fatigued from the long travel and huge feast, the boys all trekked up the left staircase to the landing labeled “first years”. There were four separate doors on this landing, each containing a room with five four-poster beds.

  
“Are we assigned a room?” Remus asked, searching for a list of student names on any of the doors but there appeared to be none.

  
“Perhaps we get to choose our own suitemates?” Peter asked.

  
“It’s a test!” James exclaimed. “We’re the brave at heart, we don’t need the guidance of teachers assigning us roommates, we’ve got to be courageous enough to meet new people and figure it out for our own!”

  
“Blimey mate, I think they were just going on first-come, first-serve basis.” Sirius laughed and James hit him before the four friends entered the first suite and ran to the bed in which their trunks had magically appeared.

  
“It’s like they knew all along!” laughed Sirius, leaping onto the crimson blanketed bed.  
“Magic,” teased Remus causing Sirius to chuck a pillow at him. Before they knew it, the four boys were in a full-on pillow fight, Sirius and Remus had quickly formed allegiance against the bigger two of the four boys, James and Peter. Peter had taken to hiding behind his four poster while James launched pillow after pillow at the smaller boys, who laughed and yelled in the excitement over their new room and new friends.

  
Things soon died down and the four were found gathered between James and Sirius’ beds, talking and learning everything there was to know about one another.

  
“My mum and dad were both in gryffindor, they met fourth year and got married straight out of school. Dad says Dumbledore was the old Transfiguration teacher, but everyone thought he was gonna be the next minister of magic the way he defeated old Grindelwald. Anyway, he ended up turning down the position, Dad says he’s the best thing that’s happened to this place in a long while,” stated James.

  
“He’s the whole reason I was allowed to come.” The boys all turned to stare at the smallest of the four and he realized his fault straight away. “I--I uh mean that, just that mum was going to send me to some private wizarding school until she found out Dumbledore ran this place.” He lied smoothly and the boys shrugged and turned back to the conversation.

  
“My mum thinks he’s off his rocker.” Sirius said, then added, “but then again, so is she.” They all roared with laughter but Sirius had to hide a twinge of fear he felt for the inevitable moment when his mother found out which house he had been sorted into. “She’ll have my hide for being sorted into Gryffindor,” he said indifferently. James looked at his friend.

  
“Aren’t you upset about that?”

  
“Nah, I’m used to it by now.” Sirius shrugged then grinned devilishly, “This is just another way to piss her off.”

  
“My mum probably won’t even notice I left for school, honestly.” Peter added, looking down at the pillow in his lap. He looked up and was greeted by three pairs of concerned eyes. He blushed. “I just mean, she’s probably not well enough!” He tried to laugh it off but the boys kept their look of pity for the pudgy boy.

  
“Hey, look at it this way… at least you got in! At least you’re not a--a werewolf! Or worse, at least you’re not a squib!” Sirius attempted to ease the tension, and Peter laughed weakly along with the boy, but the two couldn’t understand why neither James or Remus had been amused.

  
“Don’t joke about that sort of stuff please.” Remus was surprised at himself but was relieved when James added, “Yeah, squibs aren’t all that bad. My older sister’s one.”  
“You have an older sister?!” Sirius inquired, both shocked and a little ashamed at his previous comment.

  
“Well--had one, yeah.”

  
“Was she hot?” Sirius winked and James had to laugh.

  
“I wouldn’t know, she died way before I was born. Before she was even born, actually.” James saddened a little at the thought of the sister he never met. Sirius, sensing the mood of his new friend, decided to lighten the conversation.

  
“I bet she would have been brilliant, and beautiful. Did she have a name?”

  
“Chalice Dee Potter.” James smiled and Sirius mimed raising a goblet before singing, “for Chalice Dee!” then proceeded to take a drink of his imaginary toast and all the boys laughed. Something about that night changed the relationship between the group of boys--never before had any of them had someone to confide in the way that they were able to with each other. Any and all secrets (well most anyway) were spilled that first night in the dormitory and the boys woke up the next morning knowing they had formed a strong bond among new friends that would last a long while--if not forever.


End file.
